Two Friends and Too Many Cases for One Boswell
by FoggyKnight
Summary: 221B Challenge stories for KCS. Rated T for some room. Note: Invitation stated inside. Apologies for being gone so long!
1. Barn

_A/N: I do not own anything or anyone. Except Wilkins. But I don't like him much, so I'll let Holmes take care of him :) Thanks to KCS for the idea for 221B's. _

**Barn**

The fog lay thick upon the farmyard, the kind that eerily muffles and blinds those caught in it. For the three men creeping through it, it proved both curse and blessing, as a muffled crash alerted the two following behind.

"Pay up, Holmes" came a quiet chuckle in the fog.

"You know I didn't mean it that way!" a voice protested.

"You made the bet. Now you have to pay up."

"You know I meant 'with his revolver'! It goes without saying!"

"True, but you _didn't_ say it. And now he has", came the reply from the shorter companion, his laughter muffled with the effort of trying to be quiet. "Be a good sport Holmes, you know how many of our bets I've lost. Now I've won, so please be more gracious."

A soft groan came from in front of them, and Holmes and Watson crept over to their fallen foe. The two of them quickly tied him and dragged to his feet. Watson let a small chuckle escape again, and their companion glared at them, his dark face sullen. A dark, ugly red mark reaching from his forehead to his chin indicated his loss against his opponent.

"Congratulations, Wilkins", said Holmes in a dry voice, eyes dancing, "We now know that you can hit the broad side of the barn."

_A/N: My apologies if I've set off too many author alerts in some of your inboxes. I've never checked for my stories immediately before, so I didn't realize it took several minutes for a story to show up on the main screen. I tried to reload it. I've learned now, I swear!  
__  
Reading and Reviews are always appreciated._


	2. Butter

_A/N: I do not own anything! _

**Butter**

"Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson!" cried Mrs. Hudson as she opened the door. "Where ever have you been?" She wrinkled her nose as the two of them entered the hall, a sudden stench infiltrating the small space. "And what is that smell?"

The two of them were sporting cuts and bruises, common when Mr. Holmes was on a case. The criminals of London could get nasty when cornered, and it was on such nights that they would come home like this. Mrs. Hudson simply counted herself lucky that the two of them seemed to be walking under their own power.

Holmes and Watson looked sheepish. In addition to the usual dirt and grime the two of them acquired in taking down a criminal, the pair was splattered with a white-yellowish liquid, now dripping on her carpets.

"Apparently, there are places in London that can manage to support goats as a source of food," supplied Watson. "Our forger lived with his brother at such a spot, and had been blackmailing in an attempt to afford a different place. Unfortunately, he tried to run, and we had to give chase."

"And what are you dripping on my rugs?" Mrs. Hudson inquired, eyebrow arched, as the two shifted underneath her gaze.

His face pink, Holmes continued. "He tried to trip us with containers of butter."

_A/N: I doubt anyone could not be afraid of Mrs. Hudson if you were getting her nice house dirty. Read and Review!_


	3. Bragging

_A/N: I do not own anything. _

**Bragging**

"I've got it!" crowed Gregson as he strode through Lestrade's office.

Lestrade snapped his head up to look at him glaring ferociously up at him, eyes threatening retribution if Gregson did not get off his desk _immediately._

And what have you got?" Lestrade spat, his ill temper getting worse.

"Blackmail." Gregson said with a smirk.

"Who?" Lestrade asked through clenched teeth. He wished Gregson and his smirking face far away, where he wouldn't have to look at his ugly mug.

"Holmes!" came the triumphant reply.

Lestrade immediately felt his headache seep away.

"Really?!"

"Dr. Watson gave us an early Christmas present."

Lestrade raised a disbelieving eyebrow and Gregson shrugged. "I guess the good doctor felt bad about Holmes ridiculing you on your handling of the last case."

Lestrade grimaced in remembrance. "Alright then, what is it?" he asked.

Gregson nodded and leaned in conspiratorially. He looked left, then right, to see if anyone else was listening in.

* * *

"I told you that you were looking in the wrong spot Lestrade," Holmes announced. "It was obvious two days ago that the butler killed the fiancé."

Lestrade sighed inwardly, annoyed. Sidling up to Holmes, he whispered quietly, "I know about Norbury."

Holmes' mouth snapped shut as his face registered disbelief.

Lestrade shrugged nonchalantly, smirking. "I won't bring it up again, if you stop bragging."

_A/N: I doubt Watson would embarrass Holmes by telling the Scotland Yarders...but was too fun to pass up._ _Read and Review please!_


	4. Birds

_A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed! Thus I reward you with more updates!  
As always I do not own Watson or Holmes. _

**Birds**

Watson smiled quietly to himself. He and Holmes were sitting on a bench in the middle of a park. The sky was sunny for the first time, and the two had simply sat and enjoyed the sunshine. Holmes had been amusing Watson with deductions about people passing them, until the conversation had petered out.

Now, Watson watched birds that were gathering in front of the stone fountain in front of them. Pulling a bread roll out of his pocket, he crumbled it, throwing it to the birds. Obligingly, the birds ate them, eyeing him curiously. Watson chuckled and turned to Holmes.

"Holmes, I'm..." He stopped, noticing that while they had been sitting there, Holmes had dozed off. His head lay on his chest and he had a faint smile around his mouth. Holmes' hat lay over his face, preventing the light from waking him. Watson watched him quietly for a minute. Then his eyes lit up with mischief.

A soft cooing sound woke Holmes. Raising his head, he tipped his hat back, noticing as he did so that the shadow of the tree behind them had moved somewhat. Looking to his left, he froze, perplexed, as several hungry black eyes looked back. Watson began laughing heartily next to him as Holmes discovered to his horror that he was covered in birds.

_A/N: Guess where the other breadcrumbs went? Onto those that didn't read and review!_


	5. Basil

_A/N: Basil has been covered before in 221B stories, but he is cute not to mention at least once!  
Sherlock Holmes and Mrs. Hudson are ACD's. Basil is the creation of Eve Titus. Thanks to aragonite for the correction._

**Basil**

Mrs. Hudson walked upstairs and opened the door to her tenants' sitting room. Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson were returning today from a case in the country, and she was determined to clean of Mr. Holmes' room as a surprise for his return.

She armed herself with broom and dustpan, clothes and polish, ready to assault the catastrophe that Mr. Holmes called his bedroom. Opening the door, she grimaced at the dust and scattered papers lying on the floor; planning her attack.

Two hours later, having filed the last paper, Mrs. Hudson turned to the bed. She sighed. Heaven knows what he had hidden under there. She slowly got down and lifted the dust ruffle, peering underneath. Surprisingly, it was clean, except for one piece of paper and a box. The box was open and turned on its side, away from her. She reached in and pulled the paper out first.

"Mrs. Hudson", the note read, "Please do not clean under the bed anymore. I have discovered a small roommate that I have since grown fond of." Puzzled, she reached for the box and turned it around. Startled black eyes stared at equally startled housekeeper.

* * *

A female shriek stopped Holmes dead as he deduced the cause in Mrs. Hudson's bloodless face above him. His eyebrows rose. "Oh, I see you found Basil."

_A/N: Please read and review if you have a minute!_


	6. Boomerang

_A/N:_ _This is part 1 of a four part 221B._ _I got a lot more mileage out of this boomerang than I previously thought I would. Enjoy! __Mycroft and Sherlock are not mine, they are ACD's. But you deduced that already._

**Boomerang**

Mycroft and Sherlock sat in the house library. Both were waiting for their father, due to return that day from a business trip in Australia. Mycroft was reading, but his concentration was wavering due to Sherlock's impatient fidgeting. For the last hour, Mycroft had been entertaining ideas of hanging him in the well by his heels.

"Don't you have a chemistry set you could be passing the time with?" Mycroft snapped, glaring at the other boy.

"I used up all of my chemicals." Sherlock whined.

Mycroft was about to growl threats to Sherlock, when the latter suddenly threw himself from his chair. Scampering out of the room, the ten year old called over his shoulder, "Father's home!"

Sherlock ran headlong to the front door to meet his father, Mycroft and his mother following more calmly, though no less enthusiastically. Mr. Holmes greeted his family with a broad smile, giving his wife a peck on the cheek. He looked surprised when Sherlock, in an unusual display of affection, hugged him.

The three of them spent the afternoon discussing his trip and Mycroft and Sherlock's studies. After dinner, he handed each a wrapped box. Sherlock tore open his gift with enthusiasm, only to look puzzled. A curved piece of wood sat in his box.

"What is it?" he asked his father.

"A boomerang".

_A/N: A boomerang, you ask? Sounds dangerous. But not as dangerous as a bored Holmes. Go to the next part to find out why! :)_


	7. Back

_A/N: This is part two of the "Boomerang" 221Bs. Neither Holmes is mine. I like making them squirm though._

**Back**

Mycroft sighed. He and Sherlock were forced outside by their mother in an attempt to get them to some exercise, however brief. Telling them not to come in until lunch, she left them to their own devices. Sherlock had taken the opportunity to try out his new boomerang and had been attempting to master it all morning. An hour passed and the constant pinging of boomerang hitting metal was getting on Mycroft's nerves.

Looking over, Mycroft noticed that Sherlock's metal targets had finally disintegrated.

"Can you please throw that elsewhere?" Mycroft growled.

"Can you please throw that elsewhere", Sherlock mocked with a rude gesture.

Mycroft eyed the weapon that Sherlock was holding and resisted the urge sit on him until he squeaked. Instead, he turned back to the house, noting the weathervane on top of the house, three stories up, Mycroft pointed to it.

He bet Sherlock three pounds that he could not hit it. Knowing it was too far away to reach, Mycroft settled in for some quiet. Sherlock hated losing, and would sooner keep throwing than admit defeat.

He threw.

He missed.

Instead, as the brothers looked on in as much horror as viewing a train wreck, the boomerang flew ten feet beneath, through the stained glass window. Mother's prized stain glass window. It did not come back.

_A/N: Uhoh. Someone's in trouble now! Click ahead to part three find out more! _


	8. Broken

_A/N: Here is part three of the "Boomerang" 221Bs. As always, neither Holmes is my creation. _

**Broken**

The two of them gaped in horror, knowing the reaction that their mother would have upon hearing the crash.

"That was Grandfather's window." Mycroft gasped.

"I'm going to die", Sherlock moaned, sinking to his knees in shock. "She's going to find the boomerang and then she's going to find me. She'll..."

"She'll use your blood to make a new stained glass window" Mycroft interrupted, straight-faced, inwardly cheering.

Sherlock squeaked and paled further, beginning to tremble. Tears of misery formed in his eyes as his runaway imagination conjured horrors in his mind.

Contemplating his brother's distraught face, Mycroft felt a wave of remorse. He patted his brother on the shoulder. "Get up", he said, "She might not have found it yet. If we can sneak in and retrieve the boomerang, we can say that a bird flew into it. I still have that dead one that I found yesterday in the garden, in my room."

As Sherlock turned a disbelieving look on him, Mycroft shuffled in embarrassment and strode off to the house, hoping that Mother had not heard the tinkle of breaking glass.

To Sherlock's dismay, she had. She was pale with anger. Seeing the two boys walk slowly closer, she glared accusingly at them. Mycroft stepped in front of the cowering Sherlock, and bravely, "It's my fault the window is broken".

_A/N: So...Mycroft just put his hand in the tiger's mouth. Will she bite it off? Find out in part four!_


	9. Brother

_A/N: I do not own Sherlock or Mycroft. I just take them out for a stroll (against Mycroft's will of course).  
This is the last part of the "Boomerang" 221Bs. _

**Brother**

Mother had not believed him at first, as the cowering Sherlock with his guilt-filled eyes had tipped her off as to who threw the boomerang

Mother had not believed him at first, as the cowering Sherlock with his guilt-filled eyes had tipped her off as to who threw the boomerang. However, Mycroft explained his bet, both of them were grounded for a month. The boomerang was removed, Sherlock's chemistry set was removed from his room, and Mycroft had to spend the month camping outside with his father, away from his beloved books.

The trip was sheer torture. Mycroft did not like being away from books and forced to fish and hunt, swim and hike, and above all, act as if he was enjoying himself. The thundershowers that plagued the two on and off during the month put Mycroft into a fouler and fouler mood. The only bright spot of the camping trip in Mycroft's mind was when they returned.

Though they had a sort of brotherly affection for each other, grounded in their little squabbles and shared hunger for knowledge, it was rare that Sherlock or Mycroft demonstrated any outward, public affection for the other. When Mycroft had returned, Sherlock spent a straight week being polite and quiet so that Mycroft could study, even bringing a cup of tea to his room once.

However, eventually Sherlock lost patience with being polite and quiet, and announced his return to normalcy by throwing a book at his brother.

_A/N: Aww, brotherly love :D. Please read and review!_


	10. Burglar

_A/N: I was a very busy bee this evening . My mind was looking for something to do while I did yard work, so I grabbed a paper and pen and would jot down a word every so often. Then stabbed at random at the paper...so here comes the randomness. Thanks to everyone that reviewed, you guys are so cool!_

**Burglar**

A blizzard raged in London. What little light the inhabitants of London had seen during the day had long since disappeared before the blizzard that raged. The wind howled and buffeted around those unfortunates still braving Jack Frost's revenge, throwing snow up into faces and down backs.

The blizzard did not trouble the inhabitants of 221B Baker Street. Snug in their sitting room with a large, roaring fire, and pipes filled with tobacco, the two paid no heed in the weather, instead taking comfort from the other across from them.

"...my mother was so relieved that I settled down and decided to be a doctor!" finished Watson. He nodded to Holmes. "Alright. What made you want to be a detective?"

"I must admit that 'detective' wasn't my first choice of occupation. When I was young, I wanted to know everything", Holmes narrated. "I was constantly following around my father and Mycroft, asking 'why' and 'what' and 'why not'. Finally, as a Christmas joke one year, Mycroft gave me a set of lock picks in return for not touching his locks. Naturally I tried it on every other lock I could find. My father, at the end of his wits, sat me down and asked what I wanted to be when I grew up.

"What did you say?" Watson asked.

"A burglar".

_A/N: Alright! This will be the last update for the week from me. I'm going off elsewhere with my little sheet and returning Sunday or Monday with some more updates! It will probably take me a couple of days to go through your reviews afterwards, so please don't get upset if I don't get to you soon! Read and Review!_


	11. Broomsticks

_A/N: Holmes and Watson are not my characters. _

**Broomsticks**

Occasionally, as befits two good friends, conversations can turn to serious discussions about nonsensical things. Tonight was no exception, and as the blizzard raged outside, logic was exchanged in favor of laughter and fond memories.

Watson spoke, his hazel eyes dreamy and focused on a spot above Holmes' head.

"I remember a period of time where I was fascinated by tales of King Arthur and his knights. My brother Henry and I would stage mock battles in the woods that existed nearby, along with any other boys that would care to join us.

Watson grinned suddenly. "We had two chunky ponies that my parents used to get to patients and to the market," he continued. "It was not long before we were eyeing them for better use as noble chargers, bribing them with sugar cubes. I went so far as to set up a few wooden targets in a small field, and we would tilt at them. I got to be quite adept at it." Watson added with no small pride.

"What did you use for lances?" Holmes asked curiously, eyes twinkling. Watson looked at him, wondering if Holmes mocking him, but instead observed a ten-year-old boy's playful seriousness looking out at him through the grey eyes.

With an air of disbelief, as if the answer was obvious, Watson replied "Broomsticks."

_A/N: of course, Watson would not know that Holmes' mother would not let him near broomsticks after the boomerang fiasco._

_Read and Review!_


	12. Birthday

_A/N: Mrs. Hudson, Watson, and Holmes are not mine. _

**Birthday**

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson!" Watson said jovially, as she brought his breakfast over to the table.

"Good morning, doctor". She said, smiling at him. "Is Mr. Holmes out on a case?"

"Yes he is," Watson nodded, eyes twinkling. "He was already out when I came down. I don't know when he'll be back."

Mrs. Hudson harrumphed. "Well, at least he isn't in that black mood again."

Watson nodded with a look of relief. "He always does better when he is on a case".

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "Well, I made sure to make extra in case he came in soon and was hungry."

As she said those words, the pair heard thundering on the stairs. The thundering got closer, punctuated with a bang.

"I found it!" Holmes proclaimed grandly.

"Perfect timing as always, Holmes," said Watson, chuckling. "Well, let's see it!" Watson motioned to the table. He than ran upstairs to his room, as Holmes brought his arm from behind his back, revealing a brightly wrapped package. Watson came back a few seconds later with a second package, placing both on the table. Watson guided Mrs. Hudson to a chair, ignoring her questions.

"Happy Birthday, Mrs. Hudson" the two men chorused with broad smiles.

Feeling a warm glow at the unexpected surprise, Mrs. Hudson wondered how they knew it was her birthday.


	13. Bellowed

_A/N: Ownership issues. Holmes and Watson really should be mine...but they aren't :(_

**Bellowed**

Watson opened a sleepy eye, suspicious. Holmes had had a plethora of cases lately, putting him into bright spirits. Watson had been relieved to see Holmes' latest lethargic mood disappear along with the cocaine case, however, Holmes had decided on every single one of them that his cases required Holmes' plunging off to scour London before dawn.

Unfortunately, for a sleepy and bedraggled Watson, Holmes often decided to drag him along, resorting to the water pitcher when Watson was not fast enough. Once he had to beat a hasty retreat out the door as Watson came awake more suddenly than expected, chasing Holmes down the stairs.

Now Watson could see the sun's cheerful rays sidle into his room under the curtains, leaving pools of light on the floor. Too comfortable to move, he was glad Holmes did not get him up. Now his own suspicions were waking him up from the half-drowsy state he had been in for the last five minutes, waiting for Holmes to come banging in.

When he continued to suffer peace and quiet, he sighed, still somewhat asleep, and got up. Getting dressed, he prepared to go down for breakfast. Opening his door, he stepped outside. The water bucket came crashing down, soaking a startled and oddly relieved Watson.

"HOLMES! I KNOW WHERE YOU SLEEP!" he bellowed.

_A/N: Careful Holmes. Payback's a killer :P. _


	14. Bookcase

_A/N: One of these characters belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle. The two "unknowns" belong to Eve Titus. _

**Bookcase**

"You must admit, you aren't going to win this," drawled a high-pitched voice.

"Do your worst." Another high-pitched voice spat back.

Watson crouched on the stair, listening to the voices in the near-darkness in amazement. He had left the sitting room hours ago for the comfort of his bed. Holmes had retired to bed after the fire had died sufficiently. For a few hours, Watson had slept soundly, but a faint clatter woke him. Listening intently, he heard voices downstairs.

Grabbing his revolver, he crept halfway down the stairs and paused, peering at the shadows in the darkness. What he thought he saw however, was enough to make him start to question his own sanity. Two tiny shadows moved on the dining table. Watson had placed a chessboard there earlier, attempting to draw Holmes from his cocaine haze with a game of chess. Watson had watched them for the better part of an hour, amazed

Another faint scraping sound and the first voice spoke again, smugly.

"Checkmate."

"Again?" said the second voice, sounding disappointed. "One of these days I am going to beat you."

Watson shifted slightly to get a better view, and his foot slipped, cracking his knee into the wall. The tiny figures whirled at the thump with identical squeaks and ran for safety through the hole in the bookcase.

_A/N: If you deduce that two tiny figures with high-pitched voices, one having an overdeveloped sense of ego, means two mice, then congratulations Basil. _

_Read and Review!_


	15. Bruises

_A/N: Please see the disclaimers from the last page. Don't forget to Read and review afterwards!_

**Bruises**

When Holmes was on a case, it could be days before he would eat, drink, or sleep on a regular schedule, throwing Watson into bouts of worry over his health Finally, after a particularly long stretch, Watson had forced a cup of tea into Holmes' hand, and standing in front of Holmes until he drank it. To Holmes' dismay, Watson had drugged the tea with a powerful sedative, and it was the result of this that had his powerful brain fogged with sleep and unable to comprehend his surroundings.

"Squeak, squeak? Squeak, squeak, squeak." Something high-pitched and annoying was making noise next to Holmes' ear. He flinched and moved away.

There was an intake of breath. "SQUEEEAAAK!" said the noise directly in his ear, sounding vaguely desperate. A pinprick of pain flashed in Holmes' cheek, evoking a muffled grunt. He had almost settled down to sleep again, when a bigger, sharper pain latched onto the end of his nose. Holmes, fully awake, sat up with a cry of pain, drowning out a surprised yelp from the creature flying to the other side of the bed.

Holmes looked around for his attacker, expecting to see a certain biographer getting revenge. Instead, he blinked in surprise as a small brown mouse sat up at the foot of the bed, checking itself for bruises.


	16. Breathing

_A/N: Basil and Dawson are Eve Titus'. Holmes and Watson are ACD's. The situation is all mine._

**Breathing**

Holmes blinked. What was Basil doing on his bed? Basil had never come out from under his bed before, especially after the way Mrs. Hudson had shrieked when she found him.

A few months before, Holmes had discovered him living in his rooms, having defeated several of Mrs. Hudson's mousetraps. Privately, he had praised the mouse for its ingeniousness, wanting such an intelligent specimen to stay alive.

Now, watching him twitch nervously on his bed, he wondered aloud what could have caused it to leave its hiding spot, staring at the creature. He did not have to wait long.

The brown mouse looked back at him, rearing to its full height. "Do you understand me?"

Holmes' jaw dropped. "What? How?" he stammered. Surely, he was not so sleep-deprived as to hallucinate. The hallucination gave a distinct sigh and twitched his whiskers.

"Listen to me." Basil commanded. "Yes, I can talk. No, you are not hallucinating. No, your cocaine is still locked up in the doctor's desk. If you roll over and go back to sleep, I'll bite your nose again."

Holmes nodded and Basil continued. "Go get Dr. Watson and bring him downstairs. My friend is wounded. He's on your table."

Holmes ran for the stairs, praying he was still sane. Basil ran for Dawson's side, praying he was still breathing.


	17. Bats

_A/N: Points to the person that can remember the bat's name from The Great Mouse Detective. I have been racking my brains all day. _

_No one belongs to me :(. _

**Bats**

A cold drenching later, Watson was fully awake and angry with his roommate, whose face he had found not one foot away from his own. His anger subsided into concern when he saw the look of mild panic on Holmes' face.

"Holmes! Whatever is the matter?!" Watson questioned, tugging on his dressing gown.

"Do you think I'm crazy?" Holmes asked.

"Yes." Watson said, deadpan.

"What?!"

"No, of course not." Watson exclaimed, exasperated. "Did you wake me up just to ask that?

"No. Uh, how are you at stitches?"

"I've treated you often enough." Watson said, suspicious.

"How-are-you-at-treating-mice?" Holmes said in a rush.

"I'm a doctor, not a veterinarian!"

"Can you at least try? There's one bleeding on our table."

Watson sighed and grabbed his medical bag. "I'll see what I can do."

Holmes nodded. "We know you'll do your best," he said as the two sped out of the room.

"We?" Basil heard echoing down the stairs.

Some small stitches later, Dawson was deemed able for full recovery. As he slept, Basil explained the situation to the two humans, who looked bewildered.

"You are a consulting detective for other mice." Watson repeated. He glanced sidelong at Holmes, who shrugged.

"Yes," Basil said patiently.

"And you were on a case when you were attacked by...what?"

"Bats."

"Of course," said Watson wearily. "Bats".

_A/N: My word count counted "How-are-you-at-treating-mice" as one word. Due to the difficulty of cutting this down, I just went with it. Read and Review!_


	18. Bow

"_A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there is no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums." _The Red-Headed League

_A/N: I was amused by this sentence, considering whom Watson lives with, especially as it was Holmes that said it. _

_Holmes and Watson remain the figments of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's imagination. _

**Bow**

As I lay on the couch, I found myself re-reading the same page a tenth time, with as much the same lack of comprehension as the first time I had perused it. My leg, punctured by a Jezail bullet during my time in Afghanistan, ached whenever the weather changed for the worse, and today was no exception. I had propped it up on the couch, and had resigned myself to medical treatises and papers, while Holmes, trapped in one of his black depressive states, sawed away at his violin.

Without a case in the last couple of weeks, Holmes had quickly exhausted his usual distractions and now fluctuated between the cocaine bottle and his Stradivarius. Unfortunately, he had come out of his drug-induced haze at about lunchtime, and had spent the last few hours driving me almost to madness.

Finishing my treatises, I moved to my desk, my patience at its end. Spying an old note from one of our old cases; the notable adventure of The Red Headed League, I picked it up. Skimming it, I felt a growing sense of amused irony. Glancing over at Holmes, I crumpled the paper and threw it, bouncing it off his forehead.

Living with Holmes was not where "all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony", while Holmes was scraping away with his bow.

_A/N: snickers Read and Review!_


	19. Blond

**Blond**

Dr. Watson trudged up the stairs wearily, trying not to limp as his leg. It was the end of a long day of rounds, and he was looking forward to Mrs. Hudson's dinner, a cup of tea, and a relaxing smoke by the fire.

Moving to his chair, it was only as he was sitting that he noticed that Holmes was also home, and was currently in a black mood. Oddly, an angler's cap was jammed solidly on Holmes' head, though any other indications of a disguise were absent.

"Holmes, are you cold?" Watson asked curiously. Holmes did not look damp or sick enough to require a hat indoors, especially with the fire raging at full force before the two of them.

"No," Holmes snapped. "I will thank you not to inquire further."

"Is there something wrong with your head that I need to look at?" Watson pressed.

Sherlock growled; a black look on his face as he realized Watson would not give up. With a resigned sigh, he took the hat off, noticing Watson trying unsuccessfully not to laugh.

"My... dear Holmes... what happened?" Watson asked.

"I used a new chemical compound for disguising my hair," Holmes muttered. "It didn't wash out."

That morning, his hair was the color of dark polished wood. Now it was a bright, sunny blond.

_A/N: He was going to try it sooner or later :D. Reviews appreciated. Thanks to everyone that has written me a review so far, I'm so glad you've been enjoying this!_


	20. Blanket

**Blanket**

Dr. Watson stood in his room, sleepily contemplating his day, realizing that he had spent the better part of the day visiting bed-bound patients.

Mrs. Craftree and Mr. Sidler both suffered from cases of influenza. Mrs. Craftree had a red quilted blanket, and Mr. Sidler had a tattered blue harvest pattern wrapped around himself.

Mr. Russell had been the most difficult to treat. He had recovered from pneumonia only last week and still tired easily. The argument between man and doctor was settled when Mr. Russell fell asleep in the middle of a sentence. His wife had piled three thick woolen blankets on top of him afterwards, winking at the doctor as he left.

Getting home late, Watson barely had the energy to greet Holmes and Inspector Lestrade, both of whom looked at him with concern as he limped into the room. Managing to eat only part of his meal, the conversation behind him lulled him into nodding off over his plate. Concerned, Holmes woke him enough to send him off to bed, the couch covered in clues from his current case.

Later, Holmes peeked carefully into the room, to make sure Watson made it upstairs. He sighed when he noticed the doctor was fast asleep on his bed, still dressed. Tiptoeing over, Holmes covered him gently with the blanket.

_A/N: I think I'm going to bed soon...yawns read and review!_


	21. Boxing

_A/N: Another "young Sherlock" story. Too many possibilities to pass up!_

**Boxing**

Sherlock Holmes had always been an energetic youth, and his father tried to divert that energy into socially acceptable pursuits. At first, such as the case of violin lessons, Sherlock would have to be forced to have anything to do with the pursuit of the moment, but gradually, he began to go to his father himself and suggest them.

In the case of boxing, it was less of Sherlock becoming interested in the sport, and more of the sport becoming interested in him. Mycroft learned of Sherlock's desire to learn this new skill one summer morning when Sherlock was eleven, when the younger brother came staggering up the driveway, his face and arms bruised and bloodied, causing Mycroft no little alarm.

Mycroft was disconcerted further when instead of complaining of pain, Sherlock gave a broad grin; splitting his upper lip open again, and lifting a box from under his good arm. Inside were a couple of kittens, still furless and crying for their mother.

"There were a couple of boys down by the river with these two. They were going to drown them, but I gave them better sport instead," Sherlock whooped triumphantly at the memory. "I taught those two a lesson. I even managed to break Stevens' nose. Do you think that Father might let me take lessons in boxing?"


	22. Blackberry

_A/N: Heh, it's starting to get harder to figure out how to end the last sentence in the fluffier-fics. I cheated this time :). _

Mycroft sighed, ignoring Sherlock's last sentence. It was up to Father to decide that question, not him. He was more concerned about the two nearly furless creatures in the box.

"You realize that someone will have to take care of them?" He motioned to the two kittens mewing in the box, adding, "I will not be responsible for those two climbing the drapes, shedding fur, and making a mess in the kitchen."

Sherlock nodded seriously, good eye gleaming slightly.

"They will also need to be fed and washed. You also need to find a place for them to sleep and a litter box as well." Mycroft ordered. "I do not want to see them in my room, or you bothering me with them.

"Yes, Mycroft" sighed Sherlock, rolling his eyes at his brother's bossy tone. He decided never to go to university, if that is where Mycroft learned to be such a bore.

Two months later, Mycroft was in bed with a book. A small crack in the door allowed entrance for another of the household. Mycroft moved over as a small black creature entered, jumping up and padding into place beside him. Sticking its nose under his hand, it crawled into his lap. Mycroft began petting absently.

_An empty lap is a terrible thing to waste_, thought a purring Blackberry.


	23. Boswell

**Boswell**

The hansom clattered to a stop, its driver calling out the destination. Watson stepped down, adjusting his hat as he walked up to the door of his home. Ordinarily, he would not be limping, but the day had been a hard one, and he was tired.

Thinking about the instructions Holmes had given him, the doctor felt a sense of satisfaction, feeling he had completed the list perfectly. Watson opened the door to the sitting room and discovered Holmes was not there. Entering, he looked around for an indication that Holmes might have left him further instructions, but to his relief, there were none. Noting that Mrs. Hudson was setting out supper, he sat down with gratitude. "There's nothing like your dinners," Watson said, earning a broad smile. "You always say the nicest things about my cooking, doctor," she returned.

Only wild horses would drag him out of bed, Watson thought as he went to sleep. Noting the lack of sound downstairs, he hoped that Holmes would not remain out all night. Events moved rapidly in this new case, but that did not mean that Holmes had to lose sleep anytime soon.

"Bother," Holmes said as he strode in later that evening, "It's the Stradivarius tonight," noting that for yet another night, he would have to make do without his Boswell.


	24. Budgets

_A/N: Post-Hiatus piece. How many people wondered where had Mycroft found the money to constantly wire to Sherlock during the Hiatus?_

**Budgets**

Sherlock Holmes sat back in his chair, smoking his pipe across from his brother Mycroft in the Diogenes Club. It had been two weeks since his return to London, and conscience and brotherly gratitude had dictated that he pay a visit to his brother to thank him for his help.

"Mycroft," questioned Sherlock, "where did you get the funds to send me? My bank account was frozen and an accountant position such as yours surely doesn't pay so well as to fund two people's lifestyles, does it?"

"Actually, it was your own money," Mycroft smirked, raising a hand to forestall Sherlock's question. "When Father died, he left me in charge of the estate's funds. When you moved to London, I had sold the estate, keeping your share in case of an emergency. Detective work is hazardous after all. "

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You're telling me that when I had to occasionally beg funds from you while I was struggling on Montague Street, I was begging for my own money?" he asked.

Mycroft looked at him, a look of exasperated affection in his eyes as he looked at his little brother.

"My dear brother, even if I had not had your money to give you when you needed help, you should know that I have always counted you into my budgets."

_A/N: Wow...this idea went from a Mycroft slightly mocking Sherlock moment to a moment of brotherly fluff as I wrote it. I guess Mycroft isn't as logical as his brother tries to be :). _


	25. Bitter

**Bitter**

As Watson kept his bedside vigil on Holmes a second night, an unexpected companion joined him.

"What happened to him?" worried the small mouse by his elbow.

Watson looked down, his bleary eyes focusing slowly. "It's nothing I can't handle Dawson," said Watson, turning back to look at Holmes. "He had a high fever from walking around London last night in the rain. I told him to stay home and get some rest, but he wanted to confirm his theory."

Dawson nodded sympathetically. "What a coincidence. Basil did the same thing," he said, rolling his eyes. "As a matter of fact, I was out of the medicine I have been giving him and was wondering if you could spare a couple of drops."

"Well, at least we get a doctor's revenge upon their stubbornness," Watson laughed, reaching into his bag for the eyedropper. Dawson took a whiff of the tiny bottle when he had filled it and shuddered. "That smells vile."

"Imagine what it tastes like," said Watson. "Sometimes I think the only reason that Holmes recovers so quickly is the taste of whatever medicine I gave him."

"Doctor's sweat and waiting vile, that's what's in a healer's phial."

Watson wondered what book Dawson quoted.

A weak voice croaked from the bed, "Watson! Is that why your medicines are so bitter?"

_A/N: Repeat after me, "Just a spoon full of sugar makes the medicine go down!" This is my revenge to a certain someone. You know who you are. Now I have Mary Poppins stuck in your head!_


	26. Brown

_A/N: Sorry I was gone so long. At least I found my muse again however briefly! This is a continuation of "Blond". _

**Brown**

Watson looked over at Holmes from his place on the settee where he had been reading his newspapers. Holmes was contentedly smoking his pipe and organizing his criminal index, as he had been for the last hour.

"What do you wish to know, Watson?" Holmes asked suddenly, not looking up from his books. Watson blinked, and decided that Holmes must have heard the papers stop rustling.

"Well, ever since the incident last week..." Watson began, pausing as Holmes grimaced in recognition.

"The chemical accident?" Holmes said in a slightly pained voice.

"Yes. I was curious why you had reacted the way you did. I thought it would have amused –"That is all Watson got out before Holmes looked at him and shook his head.

"Yes, my name means 'fair-haired'. No, I was not amused. When I was born, I was the only blond in the family. Starting when I was five years old, then it gradually darkened until it was this shade. Even now, when someone hears my name, I am occasionally serenaded by 'blond' humor." Holmes grimaced.

Watson grinned. "So is that why you were in such a foul mood coming back from Scotland Yard that week! Next time Gregson teases you, remind him that it is easier to see his blond hair in dark alleys than your own brown."


	27. Biographer

**Biographer**

As a writer, Watson was always on the lookout for strange phrases and words with which to expand his knowledge. Every evening after he came home from his rounds, he would read the newspapers, a notebook at hand, and copy down words and phrases that struck his fancy. They rested, bound up in his desk for handy reference.

Except one.

One April Fool's Day, a package had been brought to Scotland Yard and discreetly placed in an out of the way corner. That same evening, Inspector Youghal found the package, brightly wrapped and tied, without a name or return address. Several Inspectors and Constables hovered around it as he opened it on his desk, curious but cautious, having received several "jokes" during the day from various lowlifes on their beats.

The package contained two more packages. The first yielded a slip of paper, containing a short phrase; "STUD, 29, Find the phrase first." It took some racking of brains, but eventually Inspector Morton had found the Strand article that contained Dr. Watson's A Study in Scarlet.

Line twenty-nine read; "...and I am no chicken."

The second package yielded a small caricature of a rooster with Lestrade's face, coat and hat.

A roar of laughter echoed through the halls and followed Lestrade as he fled back to his office, cursing Holmes' biographer.


	28. Blank

**Blank**

"The sky is beautiful tonight." Watson said as he and his companion strolled back to the cottage they were staying in.

"Are you getting romantic notions about the night sky, Watson?" Holmes said dryly as he glanced over at Watson. "I thought you had all the writing ideas you needed from the conclusion of the case tonight."

"I do. I'm just enjoying the fact that we were unscathed for once." Watson retorted, sighing. "You can hardly see any stars in London. It is nice to be able to look at them, especially after this evening."

"Only you would think that a story involving a politician, a lighthouse, and a cormorant would be believed by the public and not scoffed as pure fiction." Holmes continued, as if Watson had not spoken, a hint of humor in his voice as he tried to needle the author.

"Why not? Until I met you, I could not believe that a man could keep his tobacco in a slipper." Watson said with a slight shake of his head.

"It is perfectly plausible." Holmes retorted. "I had a spare slipper that I couldn't find a place for, so I made use of it."

"Most people would have thrown it away."

"As you keep commenting, I am not most people." Watching Watson dissolve into laughter, he feigned confused blankness.


	29. Begin

_A/N': This is a slightly different one that I did late at night a few days ago_

**Begin**

I can feel Watson's eyes on me again. They say what he does not. He is worried.

The black mood is upon me again. It creeps into my bones and traps my mind with a cage of lethargy. I haven't moved away from this chair in days, yet I am exhausted, as my mind turns around in circles, driving itself to pieces. Scenes from past cases replay themselves in my mind repeatedly, particularly those where something went wrong, driving me to my Stradivarius or cocaine to escape the "what-ifs". I tell Watson that my mind rebels from stagnation, and that is half-true. The truth is that I need something to distract myself from what has already happened, so I can focus on the present and the future.

My friend is worried about my health; after all, he is both friend and doctor, and my black moods trouble him. I sense that he does what he can to capture my attention, but most of the time, the faces of criminals and friends alike insert themselves in my vision in front of my friend and his discussion is lost.

To our mutual relief, there is a reliable cure and my mind's prison crumbles once more as we hear footsteps pad up our stairs. I see relief in Watson's eyes as my deductions begin.


	30. Bathtub

_A/N: In my defense, I get some really strange inspirations sometimes. :-)_

**Bathtub**

"...and his apprentice came in this morning for work and found our gentleman here. This makes this the third victim this week, and we still aren't any closer to solving this case." Inspector Lestrade said, mopping his forehead with his handkerchief. "The higher-ups are starting to get impatient." Holmes made his own impatient noise from his prone position by a rug, and Lestrade fell silent. He looked on curiously as Holmes continued to examine the room; alternately crouching with his magnifying glass or whipping out his tape measure.

Watson moved to re-examine the corpse. The corpse's limbs were sprawled in an awkward manner as if he was warding something off. His mouth was open in an eternal scream of terror, his eyes wide and glassy in death.

Watson shuddered. "I hope this isn't a sick joke on the part of the murderer."

"What makes you say that, Doctor?" Lestrade asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, I keep waiting for a punch line," Watson said sheepishly. "Why else would he kill a baker, a candlestick maker, and a butcher?"

Lestrade's mouth fell open as he stared at Watson for several seconds. Then his eyes lit up and he dashed for the door out of the room. Following hastily, Holmes and Watson found him upstairs, lifting a small oiled box from the victim's bathtub.


	31. Book

_A/N: Set immediately after SIGN. Answers one of KCS's prompts. #24 or #25._

**221 Book**

As my friend reached once more for the cocaine bottle I ventured to delay his syringe. Perhaps if I could get him to think of other things, he would not use it, at least for the rest of the day. However, I was genuinely curious about one other thing, and wanted to ask about it while he was still lucid.

"There does remain one more thing that puzzles me Holmes." I say hastily. The statement worked, as I knew it would, his hand pausing as it brushed the bottle. Holmes does like to have his dramatic revelations for those of us mortals who did not observe as he did.

"Why did you tell Inspector Jones that I had published more accounts of your cases in the _Strand_? You know I have not."

"My dear Watson, as honest as ever". Holmes continued, "I seem to be so used to hearing about your fanciful writing of the Jefferson Hope case that I had forgotten that your other stories were published in the _Chronicle."_

I grew suddenly suspicious at his casual tone. "My dear Holmes, you did that deliberately! Do you realize what that will do to the Yard? Gregson and Lestrade were livid for weeks after _A Study in Scarlet_ was published."

Holmes smirked slightly. "For all they know, you wrote another book."


	32. Baskervilles

**Baskervilles**

Sitting outside my hut, I looked out over the moor. The setting sun tinged the broad expanse in front of me different shades of pink and gold. The silence pressed all around me, the small strand of smoke rising from my pipe the only defiance that I could bring against the great loneliness of the moor. I sat on a rock, rereading the telegram I had received earlier.

At times like this, I wished Watson was with me, but he was better staying where he was. Sir Henry Baskerville needed someone to keep an eye on him. Still, I looked forward to rejoining him at the manor. Cartwright's visits were not enough human contact to banish the solitude. No man can be an island after all, and the ghosts of the huts I now resided in seemed to haunt me as the dark approached.

I opened the telegram once again. Watson was as eager as ever, full of wrong conclusions and romantic phrases. Still, it was better than nothing, and I was impressed at the depth of information he had collected regarding the inhabitants of the nearby area, though not surprised. He had always been the patient one in listening to others.

I tipped the ashes from my pipe, my mind decided. I would return to the home of the Baskervilles.

_A/N: Read and Review! Since KCS brought it up, I'd like to extend an open invitation to borrow one of my writings if it inspires a plot bunny! _


	33. Bamph

_A/N:_ _Sorry for the slooooow update, I've been too busy to write in the past month. (wow, a month?!) Hunting for a job is taking up all my time, so I may not post as often as I (or anyone else) might like. "Correcting Young Ambitions", my other story, is still currently on a brief hiatus until I can figure out how to finish it. I hope to finish it soon, but need to wait until I have the time :(. I'll still be on from time to time to read all your stories however!_

_A/N2: I wanted to try out some "sound effects". It alternates. Then I wanted to make it into a 221B. Hope you like it!_

**Bamph**

_clink, clink_

_eeeEEEeeeEEEEEeeeeeaaa _

_Clink. Creak. _"ahem."

_eee__eeee__eeeEEEEE_**EEE**_eeee_

_Creak. _

_aaaeeeEEeeeaeeeaeaeaeeee_

_Clink, clink_

_eeeEEEeeeEEEEEeeeeeaeeee_

_hhiiiiii-HIIiiiii..._

_eeeeeEEEEeeeeeeeEeEeeEeeE_

"Hmmph."

_eEeEeEEEEeeeeeEEEeeee_

_Creeeak. shuffle, __shuffle__, shuffle. _**BUMPH**

_Creak SCREech creak. _"WHAT?

"Never mind."

_Creak. __thump, __thump__, thump, __thump__, thump. __Creak._

_Skrit, skrit, scratch, skrit_.

_Da da da dum?_

_Scritch, Scratch, scritch_

_Dah, dee dee, dee-dah-dee-dum?_

_Skritch, scritch, scritch_

_**Dum**_, _Dum dum dah Dum_

_SCRITCH, scratch, scritch._

"dah, dah, dah, dum..." _plunk_ _TWANG_. "Arrgh!"

"Thank heavens!"

"You can stop that. My skull is not going to turn to ice."

_Kkk, hisss...puff puff puffpuff_

"It was your own fault. You've been scraping away on that violin for days without replacing the strings..."

_Puff puff_

"...not eating...barely sleeping..."

"Well if I had a case-"

"If you had a case, you still wouldn't eat or sleep. Besides, your leg is still healing. For once, can you try to entertain yourself like a normal person?"

"My mind stagnates -"

"Yes, I know. Your mind stagnates when you do not have work."

"The criminal class is-"

"I know very well what the criminal class is doing. Yet for every time you say that, a client invariably shows up on the doorstep with a case to interest you. Especially when I want you off your feet!

_RRRRRIIIIiiiiing_

"Hehe. You were saying?"

"Don't even think about it."

"Think about what?"

"You know what."

"Doctor-"

_Bamph. _


	34. Bark

_A/N: It was a surprise to recieve a review out of the blue after such a long time away. I can't believe how long it's been since I've written anything. Thanks to ukiahfox sending me back to my keyboard. :)_

**Bark**

It has been a long time since I've seen him. Several months, or perhaps a year or two by now. I have been meaning to come visit him, but I was busy with my work and one thing has lead to another, as life is wont to do, and so a great deal of time has passed by. I suppose unconsciously, I was also putting off a visit due to his fellow tenant, a polite enough fellow when he is in a good mood, but irritable and irritating when in a black one. It's not his fault, poor chap, he cannot help where he lives or who he socializes with. I suppose his current residence is the best place he could get, and he seems to be comfortable enough there.

Drooping like a wilted flower, his bones refuse to let him stand straight. When he walks - or shuffles rather, unable to break into anything quick anymore - dust rises in a thick brown cloud in his wake. His eyes have dimmed over the years. He still recognizes me though, and gazes at me with friendly eyes. Seeing me, he realizes he is needed, and rises to the occasion. Straightening up as much as his old bones can allow, Toby sniffs the item Holmes holds and lets out a joyous bark.

_A/N: Readings and review are always appreciated._


	35. Bones

_AN: I know, I know! I have been away! Jobhunting again, I couldn't help it! Thank you to everyone who has been sending me lovely +favorites and reviews! -Foggy_

**Bones**

"You are writing again?" Holmes asked curiously, eyeing his flatmate from his chair, pipe in hand. The fireplace roared away beside him, and he wondered why Watson had not joined him on the blustery winter evening. He could hear the wind howling around the chimney, but the stubborn man refused to move from his desk.

"Oh, just writing up my notes from your last case." Watson replied, pausing in motion to look over at Holmes.

"You have not done that in a while." Holmes continued, gesturing to the small pile of notebooks that were beginning to pile up on his desk. "It seems to me there are at least three cases there."

"I know." Watson sighed. "You know how it goes, Holmes. I have been working in my practice, and then we had two clients last week, both with important cases you needed my assistance with. Then there was that illness going around the previous month that you and I both caught. One thing leads to another, and so on and so forth."

"Can I help you?" Holmes inquired, rather gentlemanly, he thought. He eyed the stacks dubiously.

"No!" Watson exclaimed. "I've seen your handwriting, Holmes. No, thank you. You stay where you are, I will not be much longer."

"Fine." Holmes harrumphed, getting a drink to warm the doctor's bones.


End file.
